Eight Little Words
by permanthiatus
Summary: "The words stayed at the forefront of their minds, haunting them." The six-year Gryffindor boys found out a scary truth about their emerald eyed friend. Warnings: Self-Mutilation. UNDER EDITING
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: My mind decided to be morbid and produced this one-shot! I think I might write a second chapter, but no promises. This is set in the beginning of Half-Blood Prince. Enjoy! :)**

**Rating: T (PG-13) for self-mutilation and one swear word.**

_Italics – thoughts_

**Bold – the words (you'll know what I mean after you've read it)**

_**Disclaimer: I do not, nor do I claim to, own Harry Potter. I make absolutely zero profit from writing this story.**_

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><p>Breath hitched in his throat. He didn't want to accept what was in front of him.<p>

It looked like art. Big letters boldly written in center. Tinier, more elegant letters surrounded the main piece, wrapping a cocoon around the middle. Deep letters underneath, as if the artist had pressed their drawing utensil down too hard.

Except, no, it wasn't a drawing. This wasn't a hobby used to pass time. You could tell that markers or pens or paintbrushes weren't used to make this. The letters were too jagged for them to have been made by artist's hands. Shaky, even.

And the canvas wasn't a smooth, long board or line-paper that someone would absent-mindedly doodle on. The canvas was a creamy tan color, moving up and down harshly. This canvas was living, trapped in a nightmare at the moment.

The words themselves were too horrid to have passed through any mind. But they did, obviously, or there wouldn't be anything for him to stare at right now. Maybe not the words, actually, rather the meaning behind the words.

Alone, none of the words would have much meaning. The last one, the one underneath, might, but not as much as it does next to the other words. These eight words carved together meant everything. They made his stomach turn and his face go green. They probably wouldn't have been as horrible if they were written on parchment. But they weren't.

Eight words marked the chest of his best friend. He didn't know how his friend got them there, but he was sure it was his friend's own doing.

The redhead could feel his eyes filling up. He didn't care, though. The salty tears made their way down his freckled cheeks at a snail's pass and he let them. A few drops of water meant nothing compared to his best mate. His brother. For some odd reason, his body wouldn't move. His heart desperately wanted to comfort the still tossing figure, but his brain was frozen.

Gasps were heard from beside him. He realized that his brother's _(because that's what he was, bloodlines be damned)_ screaming must've woken his other dorm-mates, much like it had woken himself. That was what thawed his mind.

Blue eyes moved from the words _(those terrible, terrible eight words) _to look around him. Seamus was right beside him, eyes as wide as saucers. Dean stood on the other side of the bed, his dark skin shades lighter than it should be. Neville was next to the tall boy, sobs wracking his body. The no-long-chubby boy had always been the most sensitive out of all them. Though, he tasted salt in his mouth, so he knew he was no better.

His eyes flickered back down. Harry was calm now, as if he could tell he was surrounded by his friends. As if he knew they'd protect him. His shirt remained lifted, however, even if the thrashing had stopped. The words were still revealed, seemingly staring right back at the four boys. Whispering in mocking voices.

_'Ha, you didn't notice us! Your best mate was torturing himself and you didn't know! Ha ha ha!'_

Maybe that was his own thoughts. It was how he felt, after all. Like he'd been kicked in the gut. What sort of brother was he? He hadn't had the slightest clue of what the green-eyed boy had been hiding. He'd let this poor boy _(when did he start looking so small?) _suffer on his own, while he went on joking and talking about Quidditch.

Ron bent down, gently pulling down the shirt and hiding the horrific words. He lifted a quaking hand to brush aside black bangs. Bending down further, he placed a soft kiss on the scarred forehead, not caring if his friends, who were still standing in silence, thought wrong of him for it.

Straightening, he reached over to grasp Seamus' wrist and tugged him over to his bed, knowing that the other two were following. They both collapsed onto the mattress, leaning against the pillows as Dean and Neville sat heavily at the foot of the bed.

Quickly casting a one-way _Silencio_, Ron broke the quiet of the room, his voice sounding too loud and harsh to his own ears. "Did any of you know about that?"

He didn't have to elaborate; the picture was clear in all their minds still. Dean and Seamus looked appalled at the idea and Neville shook his head vigorously against his knees, where he had buried his face.

They didn't speak for the rest of the night. Sleep didn't come, either. Four sets of eyes remained trained on the bed next to them, only looking away in the brief time it took to blink. The words stayed at the forefront of their minds, haunting them.

Two big, bold words written in the center. **I'm sorry. **Five tinier, almost elegant words surrounding the middle piece. **James, Lily, Quirrell, Cedric, Sirius. **One deep word underneath. **Murderer.**

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><p><strong>Let me know if you would like me to write a second chapter! And what you would like that chapter to contain. <strong>

**Thanks :)**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: The long awaited second chapter! Actually, it's only been like four days, but whatever. Lolz :P I can't help it, all the alerts/favorites/review made me excited!**

**TO EVERYONE WHO ALERTED/FAVORITED: Hey, all! I thank you very much for favoriting/alerting my story :) But can you please review, too? I know reviews are hard to give, but I'm not asking for anything elaborate. Just a simple "Good job" would work! Please?**

**Thanks to those who reviewed the last chapter! :]**

**Rating: T (PG-13) for self-mutilation.**

_Italics – thoughts_

_**Disclaimer: I do not, nor do I claim to, own Harry Potter. I make no profit whatsoever from writing this story.**_

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><p>Never before had such an array of emotions played through his body. Sympathy dashed into his heart, taking hold at the core as if to make sure it never left. Sadness danced across his veins painfully. Anger laced itself through his uncomprehending brain. The most prominent emotion, however, was confusion.<p>

Confusion flowed in his very blood, taking control and commanding the other emotions to back off so that it could be the main show. It proudly pounded throughout his shaking body.

It was morning now. The sun was slowly stretching it's arms out, getting a feel for this new land before showing itself fully. It's gentle rays splaying upwards, turning the sky a delicate pink and mellow orange.

Seamus barely noticed, though. His eyes were still trained on the prone figure in the next bed. His retina's begged for a rest, but he wouldn't allow it. Who knew would could happen if he dared to close his eyes for more than a second?

Because a second was all it took. An instant passes and then everything you believed crashes harshly to the ground. A moment where you decided to get up to see what the screaming was, already figuring it was somebody having a nightmare. And even though you were right, you were so wrong.

That was another emotion that spread inside of him. The overwhelming _wrongness _of it all.

Of course, he knew about suicide and self-harm. He didn't remember the conversation, or who gave it to him as a matter of fact, all he could recall was being told it was wrong. It was a bad thing to do and he should never do either.

He wondered if someone had told Harry that. Maybe if someone had pulled him aside to quickly explain the _wrongness_ of it all, then perhaps his skin would still be unmarked by those hideous eight words.

Anger had dragged out it's knife and began cutting his heart-strings. Seamus didn't know when exactly it had joined sympathy in his chest, but it was there now. Not anger for the ebony-haired boy – anger at himself.

He had been such a prat to Harry last year! He didn't know who Sirius was _(because it couldn't be Sirius Black) _or why his name along with Quirrell's would be there with the others. He just knew one thing. It was his fault.

If he hadn't been so jealous, if he hadn't turned his back on Harry _(not once, but twice)_, if he had just noticed something was wrong in the first place! He could have prevented all this. Why didn't he?

Which brought up another question _(there are so many questions)_. What were they to do?

Seamus jumped a foot into the air, as did the other three. He hadn't realized he'd voiced his thought until a strained croak escaped his lips.

The others stared at him, not having properly heard the question. He licked his lips and swallowed, trying to get enough silva down his burning throat. He wiped his cheeks quickly, removing the dry tears that lingered on his smooth cheeks.

Clearing his throat one more time, he asked. "What do we do now? I mean, we're aren't just going to let it go, right?"

Before he even finished speaking, the others were shaking their heads frantically. Seamus saw that they, too, had puffy eyes and sore throats as they repeated his same process.

"'Course we're not going to let it go. We just-" Ron looked pained for having to say this. "-We just have to confront him about it. Nicely, though."

Neville finally uncurled his legs, wincing slightly. "When? How?"

They pondered this. How were you supposed to confront your best mate with something like this?

"_Oh, hey Harry! We just wanted to let you know that we saw your chest. Yeah, you moved around a lot during a nightmare and your shirt rode up... Anyway, would you tell us why you made those scars?"_

Seamus snorted as the scene played out in his head. That would surely go over well.

Really, though, he had no clue. He was the jokester of the five. He flirted with people shamelessly. He'd gotten drunk more than once. Overall, he was a fun guy. He didn't know how to deal with something this... this _horrible_.

"We should do it after dinner," Dean spoke, eyes darting around. "It's too early to speak to him now, and we have classes today."

They nodded and agreed. All there was to do now was to get through the day.

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><p><strong>This is slightly shorter than the last chapter and I like the first chapter more, but oh well. <strong>

**I promise in the next chapter (yes, there'll be a next chapter) we'll get to confronting Harry! So, stay tuned :P**

**ANSWER THESE: Were any of you disappointed that this was done in Seamus' POV (sort of)? Whose POV do you want the big confrontation to be in? Neville, Dean, Seamus, Ron, Harry? Please let me know!**


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Read this chapter, then come murder me. Seriously. Just do it.**

**Rating: T (PG-13) for self-mutilation and one swear word. **

_Italics – memories._

_**Disclaimer: I do not, nor do I claim to, own Harry Potter. I make absolutely zero profit from writing this story.**_

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><p>Neville knew what it was like to feel unloved. As a young boy, he would often sit in the gardens at night, begging to the stars. He thought if only he asked kindly and waiting patiently, they'd grant him his deepest wish. When that didn't work, he thought that maybe he had to do something. And he tried. He tried to learn magic, tried to please his gran and uncle and aunt. He tried to be good. When that didn't work, he had screamed at the sky.<p>

"_Why can't you just give me my parents back!"_

So, Neville knew what it felt like.

He had been grateful when he started Hogwarts, albeit nervous. He figured that maybe there he could be somebody and if not, he could at least blend into the hundreds of other faces. But then he met a boy.

The boy was small, made tinier by the uncared for clothes that hung off of him like a big coat. His hair resembled an uncut flutterby bush. Upon his skinny face – which was as little as the rest of him – were glasses that bore many scratches. Hiding behind the circular wired frames were vivid green eyes.

The appearance of this boy didn't really matter, though. What mattered was that Neville could instantaneously tell that this boy was like him. Alone, desperate for some type of companionship, with the same gnawing pain that ate at your heart.

Later, Neville found out that the boy was actually the Boy-Who-Lived. He was oddly disappointed. He knew that someone like Harry Potter wouldn't hang around him; no matter how kind the boy seemed to be. Important people didn't like being around clumsy, no good people. It was just a fact of life that Neville faced a lot.

Neville couldn't help being happy for him on some level. He would get the friendship he desires – the love that he strives for. Harry Potter would be appreciated and praised. And above all his own selfish wants, Neville was quite glad to fade into the background.

Fifth year was possibly the most important year of his life thus far. That was the year he got to _be_ somebody. He was allowed into a secret battle-in-training club. He learned to fight and later on he really did fight, along Harry Potter, no less. That was when Harry Potter turned into Harry.

Now, here he sat. By his side were three of his friends – which, sometimes, he couldn't believe he had – and together they waited.

Neville had suspected that something was wrong with Harry for awhile. He could see the hopelessness that he saw so long again entering the emerald eyes again. It was to be expected, though, seeing as Harry had recently lost the only man he'd ever viewed as a parent. And stupidly, Neville had brushed it off. He should have known. But he didn't. So, he sat, chewing on his lip none stop.

The dorm-room door opened and in walked Harry.

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><p><strong>I'm not one to use curse words a lot, but... dammit to hell! I tried to make this chapter the confrontation – really, I <em>did<em>. It just didn't work. At all. Fuck. **

**I'll have another chapter up, soon. You know, not three months later. Sorry about that.**


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